


A Date In Paris

by ServantOfMischief



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1920-1930, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley's Eyes (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), F/M, Female-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Gift for Pinkpiggy93, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Paris (City), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), crowleys eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24078112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ServantOfMischief/pseuds/ServantOfMischief
Summary: Aziraphale cannot say the words out loud, but he knows Crowley will understand all the same.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	A Date In Paris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinkpiggy93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkpiggy93/gifts).



> Inspired by Pinkpiggy93's A Date In Paris, Good Omens comic

It’s a late evening, and Aziraphale is finding himself climbing the stairs to Crowley’s flat in Paris. When was the last time they met in Paris? 1793, wasn’t it? Horrible business, that. He was lucky the demon had been around to save his neck and spare him that awful paperwork he would have had to do to get a new body. And that could have taken forever.

And he would never have managed to eat the crepes he had come for. Truly, such a thing would have been horrendous.

Aziraphale is looking forward to tonight. Crowley had written something about a casket of a particularly good red, and since they both have some time and were in the same area, Aziraphale has decided to take him up on it. After all, Crowley often enough stops by the bookshop with little treats he thinks Aziraphale will enjoy. The angel thinks that this time it’s his turn to visit Crowley when invited, and he feels a both a little bit brave and foolish as he nears the door to the apartment. Brave because usually it really _is_ Crowley who comes to him, and foolish because he is worried what their head offices would say if they knew the two are treating each other much more kindly than hereditary enemies should. He’s even brought flowers, beautifully red roses. He doesn’t know why, it just felt right when he went out the door. The symbolism isn’t lost on him, and it certainly won’t be lost to Crowley either, who has proven himself to be quite knowledgeable about plants and flowers.

Aziraphale can’t say the words out loud. Surely, that is too dangerous, for the both of them. And perhaps he is just a fool for feeling these things, but as oblivious as he can play himself off, he has noticed certain things about Crowley, because the demon doesn’t hold anything back. And Aziraphale is an angel, a being of love. He can sense it so clearly. Truly, such a reckless being, his demon.

He stops outside the door and waits for one beat before opening the door, closing it softly behind him. It’s quiet in the flat, only the hallway is lit. He takes a few steps and stands in the doorway, frozen at the sight. Standing on the balcony, with a cigarette to their lips, is Crowley. She is clad in a dark green dress, so dark it’s nearly black, and her lovely red hair is pulled up artfully by what must be a fair amount of pins, and her smooth pale neck is framed by a rather gorgeous piece of silver jewellery. He hadn’t expected to see Crowley dressed like this, he had expected the more androgynous form they usually wear.

But she is absolutely gorgeous, that’s the only thing the angel can think as he stands in the doorway, the roses hidden behind his back as he watches Crowley blow out smoke, before slowly straightening up and turning towards him, as if just now noticing that the angel has entered the room. Crowley says nothing from where she is standing in the moonlight, she just stares at him, and Aziraphale find words stuck in his throat as he stares right back. Crowley has always been beautiful. He was beautiful atop the wall of the Garden, she was beautiful when she found him by Noah’s ark, she was beautiful in her sorrow as Jesus was crucified, he was beautiful in Rome, in England, in Spain, he was dashing during their last venture in France, and she is absolutely gorgeous now, with the eyes she usually hides behind coloured glasses on full display, usually so sharp suspicious, soft and unassuming now.

Aziraphale considers himself a learned, well, angel, a human-shaped being of many words, bot sophisticated and crude (though he never uses crude language, he has standards), but not a single word he possesses can accurately describe the scene in front of him. Crowley tilts her head, not used to the silent staring, because usually Aziraphale says something when they meet.

Aziraphale inhales deeply before he steps further into the flat and pulls the flowers out of hiding, holding them up for Crowley to take. Her eyes widen, surprised by the gesture, before they soften again and she accepts the bouquet. She nods her head, gesturing for him to take a seat on the settee and he does, listening to the silent patter of her bare feet as she moves even further in.

Aziraphale can’t say the words, not with his mouth, but the flowers must convey them all the same. Crowley knows the flower language, Crowley must know what Aziraphale feels through this gift, right?

The demon returns with a bottle and two glasses, filling them and handing one to the angel before curling up in a chair. This Crowley looks so vulnerable like this, because usually Crowley takes space, arms tossed over the back of her seat, legs bent in angles not quite natural for human limbs. Never does she curl up into herself like that. She appears so vulnerable, open, like she wants to be seen, like she wants the angel to see her for who she is, not what she is.

And the angel feels a deep-set regret churning in his stomach. Because how often has he not said; _We’re hereditary enemies! You’re a demon, I am an angel! You’re evil, I am good! You’re a Fallen! We’re not friends, I have never seen him before in my life!_

Crowley’s never openly asked for much, and even when humans made innocent assumptions about them, he was always so quick to deny everything, even when there was no reason to believe their offices were checking in on them.

But tonight, tonight he will see Crowley. He will acknowledge Crowley with no fear of what may happen. He cannot say the words out loud, Crowley understands, understands what it means to want to protect someone close to your heart. That’s probably why Crowley never made much of… no, that’s not right either.

They drink, the wine is good, just as Crowley had promised. Neither of them speak for the entire evening. They simply sit in silence and drink, and while one would not think it possible, they feel much closer now than when they talk. Perhaps that is because when they talk, they never actually speak of anything profound or deep, but rather talk about everything and nothing, just to fill the space, the emptiness, and in doing so, they are creating more of a distance, neither of them addressing the elephant in the room. Aziraphale finds himself enjoying this silence much more, because they seem to have come to a silent agreement that they can look, they can enjoy, they can be just Aziraphale and Crowley.

Not a principality of Heaven.

Not a demon of Hell.

Just… Aziraphale and Crowley, Crowley and Aziraphale. Just two who hold each other very dear, in a moonlit apartment and bottles of wine. Two who knows what the other feels, but doesn’t have to say it out loud. A dance millennia in the making, finally coming to a head, only for the two of them to know.

Crowley by all their gifts and notions throughout their long friendship.

Aziraphale with the roses they brought with them tonight.

This wine, as red as said roses, that they share between each other.

_I love you_

_I love you too_


End file.
